Sideshow

The sign above my head had been disproved by Google and Guinness long ago. The title of “World’s Fattest Man” does not come lightly, and I unfortunately did not weigh in at enough to claim it. Still, a fluctuating half ton of muscle and blubber is no small thing to accomplish on the human frame, so to catch a glimpse of me shirtless and heaving for breath in my cubicle brings in enough gawkers to verify my subsistence in the freak show tent.

My niche at the freak show is twofold technically; I am both the world’s fattest and tallest man inside this tent. People don’t often see me in all my 7’5” glory as I prefer while the subject of their stares to sit and play with my many roll of fat like so much uncooked dough. This is not that I cannot stand. I am mobile despite my size. The fat crept slowly upon me, hundreds of pounds slowly added to my bulk over many years to try to make the sign above my head less of a lie as the greatest balls of blubber over the globe were documented in record books, published for the world to see. I’ve kept my ability to stand and lift things, though it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything past my ponderous stomach, and I help with moving the circus when it’s time to go and pitching the tent when it’s time to once again make a spectacle of ourselves for profit.

At first I didn’t think much of you; you were my equal and opposite as World’s Tallest and Thinnest lady, your skeletal body drooping and barely able to hold all 7’3” of you upright. You were my neighbor in the freak show, our acts parted by a wall of gaudily painted plywood. But one night business was slow, and there was only one patron in our tent, a child separated from his parents and wandering around alone in our tent. He had stopped in front of your fragment and was staring intensely. Curious to what would cause his fascination; I waddled over to the divider and leaned in to peer through a sizable hole in the wall. And there you were, wearing a black leotard that accentuated every contour of your frame, dancing. Outside of this moment I had never seen you move so swiftly, gracefully. Your normal quiet hunched self was gone, replaced by someone confident in their movement, flowing arms and legs showing no sign of the sharp angles and points I had associated with you. With a final rotation and flourish, you stopped, bowed to your audience, and collapsed back into the heap of skin and bones I had known you as. The boy, seeing the entertainment was done, moved on to other things. But I couldn’t let that be the last I saw of your graceful self, the last I saw of you made of water instead of sticks. I spoke, and I don’t think I could have stopped myself, and you twisted in your chair at the intruder of your performance. I was frightened; it had been a long time since I had felt this way. I turned away to waddle back to my chair and pretend I hadn’t seen, my butt slapping against the thin wall between us, and its rattle as I panted my way back to my chair, reminding us both that I was once standing there, watching something only meant for a child’s eyes.

As I sat sweating from my rushed movement I heard your whispered thanks, and saw a flash of blue eyes beneath raggedy brown bangs move jilting away from the hole.

It became our ritual, when the freak show tent was void of witnesses I would lumber over to the hole in our wall, and you would dance, slipping elegantly from form to form. Outside of the tent we pretended nothing had happened, neither of us acknowledging the others existence outside. Over time I grew bolder, talking to you after the performance from behind our wall, and you grew less shy, eventually responding to my in more the hushed tones and slight glances. The first time I made you laugh, such a clear sound, startling coming from a mouth that normally rasps as if no water had past trough it in a decade, was the third greatest moment of my life, coming after watching you dance for the first time, and the first time we kissed.

It had been a year since you had joined the Midnight’s Circus, and several months since I started watching your silent performance. After each we would talk for as long as we could, till visitors would ruin our fun, but this time no one came. All of the other acts had retired for the evening and gone to bed or drink. But we stayed well past sunrise, talking about our interests and other people in the freak show when our past came up. I had just mentioned growing up a chubby child in lower Mississippi when I paused, giving you time to talk about your own home outside of the circus. Instead of filling the silence you leaned in, nose and mouth filling in the space between us. Your lips and tongue were tasteless, but warm and smooth inside my mouth and gone far, far too soon. In their place was your hand, slender arm gliding through the hole as if it wasn’t even there. You pushed your first deep inside my cavernous belly button and giggled, playing with my stomach as if it were Play-Doh. You trailed your hand through the forest of hair on my underbelly and slipped it between my folds of fat, making your way to my throbbing penis. I gripped my hands to my fleshy sides and pulled up with all my might, anything to let your fingers wrap themselves around my hardened shaft. Your fingers were so cold, but it barely mattered due to the amount of muggy sweat and pre-cum that had built up around cock over time. I was quick work, to my shame. Any touch after so much time unreleased that time sent my pelvis into overdrive, and as I shoot my load of sticky cum my knees buckled, bringing all 1000 pounds of me to the ground.

When I recovered your arm had disappeared back through the hole, but moans from the other side told me that you were still just on the other side of the wall. Rolling onto my stomach, I crawled across the ground to my chair, belly dragging along the grass and dirt of the floor, and used it to leverage myself up. Stumbling back to our hole, I peered through to see you lying on the ground, a slight tear in your leotard giving your bony fingers greased with my sperm access to your cunt. As I watched you pleasure yourself I felt myself stiffen again, and as if the memory of your fingers was enough I once again shot more seed onto my underbelly. My body writhed with passion, muscled bound by layers of fat jumping at the pleasure of sex for the first time in years, and I once again lost my balance, this time my pendulous stomach swinging my weight into the wall between us, causing the fragile wood to snap from its rusting nails and fall with into your section of the tent. I heard you cry out as the wall came down upon you, my weight giving it a force it never should have had, then a sickening crunch as the wall splintered beneath me, shards of pastel painted wood ripping into the skin of my torso. I couldn’t get up this time, my muscles had taken too much in one day, and the wall had broken into three parts, two pieces at an angle digging deep into the flesh of my stomach, preventing my from rolling. The last piece I lay upon, ever so slightly risen from the ground, with a pool of your blood draining out from underneath.